Just Another Bug Hunt
by Scrawling Maelstrom
Summary: Story within a story: Kurt tells of an early experience in the circus, when he was hired out to model an "Alien" Costume....
1. The Envelope

**Editor's Note:  **This is the second in the series.  Takes place 1 month after X2. 

**Just Another Bug Hunt**

_Well, this is an odd letter_, Ororo thought.  _I've never seen something hand-addressed to "faculty" before.  Up until now it's just been junk mail._

It was sent from somewhere in California, but had no return address.  She turned it over in her hand.  It had the wonderful texture and look of parchment.  This was someone's personal stationary.  She opened the letter, which was also of that same parchment material.  She blinked as she scanned through it.  It was written in German, with a somewhat hasty scrawl, and she recognized Kurt's first name.  At the bottom was the address of a PO box, presumably for a reply.  Perhaps this was one of Kurt's adopted relatives?  But why just address this to "faculty" instead of Kurt himself?  She replaced the letter back in its envelope and headed out to find its proper owner.

She found Kurt, along with Scott, just outside the Danger Room door.  Scott must have been running Kurt through his paces inside, as Kurt was dripping with sweat and winded, while Scott was fresh as the proverbial daisy.

"You should have told me you were so close to your breaking point," Scott berated him.  "The last thing we want is for you to seriously injure yourself."

Kurt just nodded, still breathing heavily.  He was leaning against the wall, a hand towel draped around his shoulders.

"Hey, Kurt?" Ororo asked as she walked up.  She waved the letter in her hand.  "I think this is yours."

Both men turned to face her.  Kurt straightened and stood away from the door as she handed him the letter.

"Danke," he said.  He looked at the envelope, opened, with a bit of confusion.  "Just 'faculty'?"

She shrugged.  "I don't get it, either, but it's in German, and your name's in it somewhere.  It's pretty short."

He flipped the letter open, quickly glanced over it, then stopped and looked closer.

_Please forgive my writing in German.  I know that whoever first opens this will likely not understand it, and it is not polite to do this, but I'm not sure how else to contact you.  I have been in fear for you since the attack on the White House, and it was with great relief that I saw your arrest order rescinded.  I have tried to find you, but I understand your needing to go to ground and avoid people.  Since this place was on the news at the same time, and called a "mutant training facility", I am hoping against hope that you are staying with these people, or that perhaps they can contact you._

_I do not know if the government is still watching you or not, but with the order rescinded, perhaps it is safe to speak with you again.  Here is my PO box.  Please write back to me if you are able, Kurt.  I cannot believe what they were saying about you._

_"The Bug Man"_

"This is from Anshelm," he said aloud.

Scott glanced at the envelope, though no one could tell eye movement behind his visor.  "Looks like it's from California."

"No, no, this is from a friend of mine _named_ Anshelm," Kurt explained.  "I haven't seen him in years.  It looks like he finally got where he wanted to go.  He always wanted to work in movies."  He sighed and shook his head.  "We fell out of contact some time ago.  I imagine he must have been worried sick after last month's 'incident'."

"He's not in trouble or anything, is he?" Scott asked suspiciously.

"No.  Why?"

"Seems like when we get old friends writing to us, they're in dire need of help or being held at gunpoint for ransom."

Kurt laughed once.  "I'm ahead of you, this time.  That has already happened with Anshelm."

Scott leaned against the wall and gently hit the back of his head on its metal surface.  "Figures."

"Would it be a problem if I replied to him?" Kurt asked, looking from Ororo to Scott.  "I would like to let him know I am all right."

"Depends.  Does he know you're a mutant?"

Kurt just looked at him blankly.  Scott quickly realized the utter stupidity of his question.  Even with the visor, the other two could see him wince and turn away.

"Sorry," Scott muttered.  "I'm so used to asking that question of everyone else.  It just automatically comes out."

"He is one of the few friends I have outside the circus," Kurt told him.  "He knows what I am and what I can do.  That is why he wants to contact me.  He surely recognized my pictures on the news, as well as the descriptions of my teleporting.  He was frightened for me."

"I don't mean to pry into your business, but I'm getting paranoid in my old age," Scott said, turning back to Kurt.  "I need to know more about him."

"After last month, I would expect you to be cautious," Kurt replied, nodding.  "I'm not insulted.  I met Anshelm many years ago.  He hired me for an evening's private performance, but leading up to it we spent much more time together.  You see, he wanted me to... model for him?  Is that the right phrase?  He created costumes."

"You, a model?" Ororo asked.  "I'd have to think your natural beauty would be too distracting."

He ducked his head a little and gave a shy smile.  "Not in a full bodysuit.  Are you familiar with Hans Giger's demented work?"

Ororo was not.  Scott, however, must have been.  His posture changed and a smile, a rare thing, spread over his lips.

"No," he said slowly.  "He didn't.  An alien?" Kurt nodded, and Scott continued, "Oh, this I have GOT to hear."

                *              *              *              *              *

July in Munich.  Hot, sticky, hot, sticky, and did he forget to mention hot and sticky?  Only the evenings were bearable, which was when the Munich Circus did all their performances.  Of course, for the trapeze and high-wire artists, that meant being up where all of the heat and humidity was collecting.  By the end of the night, the entire troop was sticking to everything they touched, and the sweat just wouldn't evaporate.  This lead to the time-honored summer tradition of "hosing the animals down", and they weren't talking about the performing dogs.

The trapeze troop, five men and five women, were under the canopy in back of the tents, open on all sides to catch what little breeze came through.  There were four hoses to be had, and everyone was taking turns spraying and being sprayed in their swimsuits.  Kurt, right then, was a grateful recipient.  Eric hosed him down as Kurt leaned on a plastic table to give him easy access to the back of his neck.  Eric then gave Kurt's hair a fast soaking, a simple matter as he wore his hair short.  Kurt shook his head quickly, then stood up, cracking his back.

"You're sure your tail's doing all right?" Eric asked as he gave Kurt the hose.  "I was grabbing it pretty hard.  Even with the chalk, I was sweating so much I couldn't seem get a good hold."

Eric lifted his arms and slowly turned around as Kurt sprayed him.  "Aside from the constriction gangrene, it's fine.  I've almost got feeling in the tip by now."

Dieter laughed and sprayed Kurt's tail from across the canopy.  "I bet that puts a crimp in your lovelife, there, eh?"

Kurt sprayed him back.  "Oh, and this from the man who simply must regale us with his exploits every chance he gets?  You're jealous, Dieter!  Admit it!"

Thus started the second time-honored summer tradition: the water fight.  Just a few seconds in, however, one of the stagehands, Cristof, came running back.

"Guys, guys, hold it!" he called, waving his hands.

The troop stopped, though a few were still suppressing giggles.  The stagehand looked over at Kurt.

"You're not going to believe this," he said, "but someone wants to talk to you personally.  One of the patrons."

Kurt set the hose aside.  "Cristof, I'm soaking wet.  No one is going to believe a costume and body paint lasts through all that."

"I know, I know.  I tried to dissuade him, but he says all he wants to do is talk technical with you.  I think he's a college student or something.  He says he'll pay you for your time talking to him."

Everyone looked at each other.  Paying for the time?  That was new.  No fan had ever done that.  Of course, once he saw that The Incredible Nightcrawler wasn't wearing a costume, he'd probably slink away, shaken to his core.  Most did.

Kurt sighed.  "Well, if he's willing to pay for the time, it means he's determined.  I hope I don't shock him too badly.  Give me a minute to cover up, then send him back.  What's his name?"

"Anshelm Kunstler."

A little later, Cristof lead Anshelm back to the bathing canopy.  The performers had covered up in terry robes by that point, but Kurt was a bit more covered than the rest, sitting at the table and draped so in robe and bath towels that only his face was visible.  Anshelm was a slight man, probably Kurt's age, maybe a little younger.  He fit the description of college student quite well, dressed in cut-off fatigues, a tank top, and sandals, with a laden backpack slung over one shoulder.  He looked very excited to be there, which gave Kurt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  It made the rejection that much more painful when it inevitably happened.

Anshelm headed straight for Kurt, a broad grin on his face.  "Thank you so much for seeing me, sir!  I did not mean to delay your shower."

Kurt smiled pleasantly and nodded.  He tried very hard not to show his teeth as he spoke.  "It is no trouble.  You wanted to talk 'technical' with me?"

"Ah! Yes!" Anshelm glanced back at the table and an empty chair.  "May I?"

"Feel free," Dieter said, patting the chair.

Everyone was a bit tense.  Anshelm must have been truly focused not to notice it.  He sat and pulled the chair up across the table from Kurt, leaning forward eagerly.

"Look, I'm a student at Berlin University, and I wanted to ask you about the workings of your tail.  I mean, it's the most incredible piece of work I've ever seen!  You must have one hell of a harness to hold such weight!  And what pneumatics do you use for such speed and motion?"

Despite himself, Kurt sighed and looked away.  Everyone believed the tail to be a prop.  It was safer that way.  How could he tactfully explain to the man that it was wholly organic?

"I know it's a trade secret," Anshelm said, holding up his hands in the universal sign for "forgive my rudeness".  "But I was just hoping to get some pointers.  I'm working on something that could make my career in November... and...."

He trailed off as Kurt lifted his tail up next to the table.  The rest of the trapeze troop tensed further.

"My friend, there is little I can tell you about pneumatics or harnesses," Kurt said softly.  "The tail is wholly mine."

Anshelm just stared at the tail, his mouth wide open in shock.  He lifted a hand as if to touch it, then must have decided better.  He looked back to Kurt.

"It's...not a costume, is it?" he whispered.  "Everything...it's all real, isn't it?"

Kurt looked at him calmly, hoping he masked his own apprehension well.  "Yes.  All of it is real."

Then Anshelm did something that no one expected.  He broke into a wondrous, elated smile.

"My God," he whispered.  "I never dreamed.  This is just perfect."

Trepidation turned to confusion.  What was this student talking about?  Anshelm picked up his heavy pack and unzipped it, so excited his hands were shaking.

"I-I want to talk to you... about maybe hiring your services this November," he blurted out, digging for something in his pack.  "I'd need access to you for a week off and on for fitting, and you'd only be performing for the night--"

"Whoa, hold on."  Kurt raised a hand in an attempt to slow the bewildering chain of events to a manageable speed.  "What kind of performance, and where?"

Anshelm glanced up at Kurt as he fumbled through his pack, that smile still on his lips.

"I'm trying to break into the movie industry.  I do costuming and special effects.  I'm replicating one of Giger's aliens, and I was going to ask you about how to make the tail move, but, my God, you'd be the perfect model to wear the thing!"

" 'Giger'?" Kurt asked.

Anshelm froze.  "Giger!  Hans Giger?  _H.R. Giger?_  Haven't you heard of him or seen his work?"

Kurt shook his head.  A few in the troop gasped, realizing what Anshelm was proposing.

"Kurt, he's right!" one of the ladies said, laughing.  "You'd be perfect!"

Anshelm produced a large, hardbound book of Giger's surreal artwork.  Kurt felt a bit revolted as he looked at the cover.  This was the product of a twisted mind.  He removed the extra towels as he leaned forward and took the book in both hands, then opened the pages.  Two were marked in particular, so he went to those first.  He just stared at the creatures on the glossy pages.  Bipedal, insect-like exoskeleton, long tail, bulky yet elegant dorsal spines, long, eyeless head.  The stuff of nightmares.

"You're making this costume?" he asked.  "And you want to hire me to wear it because of my tail?"

"It isn't just that.  It's the way you move!  You've never seen the movie, have you?  Giger did this work for a movie series for America.  It was very popular."

"It looks like it was a horror film.  I don't usually go for those."

"I have the videotape in my pack.  Do you have a VCR somewhere?"

Usually the TV and VCR stayed in its respective trailer, but that would have been too cramped and hot for everyone.  They moved the setup outside, hooked it up to an extension cord, and plugged everything in.  There was quite a crowd by this time, as few people were willing to pass up a free movie.  The trapeze troupe had the best seats, of course.

Kurt had never seen anything like the movie Aliens.  The "chestburster" scenes practically made him want to teleport away into his trailer.  Soon he understood why Anshelm wanted him to perform in the monstrous costume.  The way the things crawled about, the way the bounced from wall to wall; those were his movements.  

Dieter elbowed him in the side.  "You've been holding out on us, Wagner!  You owe us a share of the wages you made on this film!"

"Huh?  You say something, Dieter?" he asked innocently.  "I'm sorry, I'm too busy watching Miss Weaver to pay attention to you."

It was a longer movie than most anyone thought it would be, and it was very late by the time it was over.  However, Anshelm was as energetic as ever, and by this time, so was Kurt.  They stayed up for hours talking in the main tent, using a propane lantern for illumination, trying not keep the rest of the circus awake.  Anshelm's enthusiasm was infectious, and he was already taking measurements and doing sketches.

"Is this your major?" Kurt asked, watching Anshelm work.

"No, my major is robotics and electronics, minor in chemistry," Anshelm replied.  "They don't really have a 'special effects' course.  You put it together as you go along.  When I graduate, I intend to work with people like Stan Winston and Stephen Spielberg.  Maybe even ILM."

"That's a tall order.  There must be a lot of competition."

"Well, this could do it.  Every November in Berlin, there's this big special effects and costuming night.  Talent scouts for the big names are in the audience, and if you do well enough, they offer you a position.  Starting, of course.  An apprenticeship.  I'd almost pay to work _for_ them."

"You're not planning on passing my tail off as--" Kurt started.

"No!" he interrupted, indignant.  "Of course not!  That's your trade secret, remember?  They'll understand that.  You're just showing off the merchandise.  Besides, I know one team is having a friend of theirs wear their Robocop costume.  He's only got one leg, so they can make a robotic prosthetic and have the gun literally come out of his thigh.  With competition like that, I don't feel bad at all about having you there.  You'll get full billing."

"A robotic prosthetic?" Kurt repeated, awestruck.

"Yeah, like I said.  This is where the professionals go.  There's a lot of competition to get in, but my sketches got me a place in the show."

Kurt smelled coffee.  Oh-oh.  He went to the tent flap and saw the sun starting to rise.

"Um, Anshelm?" he said timidly.  "It's morning.  We've been here all night."

Anshelm bolted to his feet.  "Oh _shit_!  I've got classes today!"

"All the way back in Berlin?  I think you're cutting today."

Anshelm stuffed his work back in his pack.  "No, no, I can still make them, but I'll have to hurry."

"Want some coffee before you go?"

"Nah.  Stuff makes me wired."

Kurt just stared at Anshelm as he shouldered his pack.  He didn't want to think about what this guy considered "wired".  He'd probably vibrate through the floorboards.

Anshelm pressed a roll of marks into Kurt's hand, along with his address and phone number.  "I hope this compensates you for your time.  I didn't mean to keep you up all night."

Kurt shrugged and smiled.  "I don't need much sleep.  I'll probably be fine by lunch."

"Will I be able to see you again later this week, perhaps?"

"Next time, just bring a sleeping bag and sleep here, will you?  I would feel better knowing you weren't falling asleep at the wheel somewhere."

"You're serious?"

"Sure.  No room in the trailers, but plenty under the stars."

                *              *              *              *              *

For the next few months, Anshelm would occasionally come up with pieces for fitting, following the circus as it went from city to city.  The rest of the performers soon grew used to seeing him around, and treated him well.  After all, any rube who liked Kurt couldn't be all that bad.

The problem was that as summer wore on into fall, Berlin became a less and less healthy place to be.  The city had two all-too-successful bombings and one attempted one.  Anshelm was concerned, but not overly so.  As always, his project occupied his time.  Kurt, too, was relatively unconcerned.  Statistically speaking, the chances of a bomb going off on the exact day of his performance were slim, let alone in the exact place.  Or so he thought.

On the first of November, two weeks before his "gig" with Anshelm, the circus patriarch, Papa Bashalde, called him into his personal trailer after dinner.  There the two of them spoke alone.

"Kurt, look... your mother and I would like you to think this Berlin job over," he said quietly.

"What?" Kurt asked, shocked.  "Are you telling me to back out?"

"We'd like you to consider it, yes."

"How can I do that?  There's only two weeks left!  It's all fitted to me!  There's no way he can find a replacement!"

"Berlin isn't safe right now--"

Kurt threw up his hands in exasperation.  "I'm more likely to get killed by a streetcar than a bomb!  I've got a commitment!"

"So you think a bomb won't come for you, eh?" He poked Kurt in the chest.  "Do you know what just happened a few minutes ago?"

"I can just guess," Kurt grumbled.

"That's right, another bomb.  And do you know where it was?"

"You're going to enlighten me, aren't you?"

"Right outside the American Embassy!  All of the bombs have been going against places where there are American interests!  Guess who will be at that little party of yours on the 15th?"  When Kurt didn't immediately respond, Papa Bashalde finished for him.  "Lots of powerful movie Americans!  Producers, agents, scouts!  All part of Hollywood America!  The only thing that would make it more America is if there was Disney there!"

Kurt decided against telling the aging patriarch that some people from Pixar would be at the performance.

"And _that_ is why we don't want you there," Papa Bashalde finished, crossing his arms imperiously.  "Yes, you can pop about from one place to another, but it won't save you if you don't see it coming."

"I can't believe you're telling me to do this.  You encourage me to try things on the trapeze, but you don't want me to fulfill a commitment on the slim chance that--"

"We know the trapeze!  We know the risks with it!"

"And because this risk is unfamiliar, it makes it more lethal?  Because you don't understand it?  Is that it?"

Papa Bashalde hesitated, realizing where the argument had suddenly turned.  Kurt's face was turning deep purple with the flush under his skin.  His tail lashed to and fro angrily.        

"I've had it!" Kurt snapped.  "I'm sick of hearing that something different is too dangerous!"

"This isn't about you, it's about terrorists in Berlin--!" the man started.

_"It's the same mindset!"_

Kurt teleported out of the trailer.  He would sleep alone, under the stars, that night.

TBC….


	2. The Performance

**Just Another Bug Hunt, part 2**

Much to his mother's consternation, Kurt was ready and waiting to go when Anshelm arrived nearly two weeks later.  He stood on the gravel parking lot just outside the tents, dressed in his "outside" gear.  In addition to his usual clothes, he wore a thick layer of "Caucasian-tone" facial makeup, a black hooded sweatshirt, black trenchcoat, oversized mirrored sunglasses, and black, ratty, overstretched sneakers.  He could almost pass for "normal" in this, assuming he kept his hands in his pockets.  His small daypack sat on the ground by his left leg as Anshelm pulled up in his 1987 Volvo.

Kurt's mother came up behind him quietly.  "You're not going to change your mind, are you?"

"No," Kurt answered.  "I didn't change it for Papa two weeks ago.  I sure won't now."

She sighed, then lightly kissed his cheek in farewell.  "Be careful, my son.  Zhan le Devlesa tai sastimasa."

Zhan le Devlesa tai sastimasa: go with God and in good health.  He turned his head towards her, just enough to let her know he heard, then picked up his bag and headed for the car.  Anshelm leaned over and opened the passenger door for him.  Kurt tossed his pack into the rear seat, settled into shotgun position, and fastened his seatbelt as Anshelm turned the car around.

"You look nervous," Anshelm noted.  "Even through all that stuff, I can see you're nervous."

"I don't usually leave the circus grounds," Kurt said softly.  "This is the first time I've done so without at least three or four of my family with me.  So, yes, I'm a little nervous."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one," Anshelm muttered.  "This whole thing has me tied in knots.  The damn bombs aren't helping things, either."

"My folks aren't happy I'm going to Berlin right now," Kurt confessed.  "Papa Bashalde and I have had a few arguments.  The old man seem to think that the conference is going to attract terrorists like bees to honey."

The two friends glanced at each other.  They could tell they were both thinking the same thing.

"You think he could be right?" Kurt asked.

"Yeah.  Maybe.  It's just... I'm a magnet for weird things, Kurt.  All kinds of crap happens around me.  I take a trip to Hollywood in time for an earthquake.  I take a quick run in the park and find someone having a heart attack on the ground.  Last month I was the first on scene at a car wreck.  It'd just be my luck to have something go wrong that night."

Kurt sighed and leaned the seat back, folding his arms behind his head.  "We're doomed, aren't we?"

"Probably.  Hey, you seen the paper today?"

"Please tell me another bomb hasn't gone off."

"I'd feel better if one had, but, no.  Paper's in the back seat.  Take a look at the front page.  They've got a couple sketches of some suspects.  Knowing my luck, I figure I'll run into them sooner or later, so I've been committing the faces to memory."

Kurt felt around the back seat with his tail, eventually finding a thick stack of paper among the crinkled fast food bags.  He picked the entire stack up and brought it forward.  There were four sketches on the front page, all Caucasian, all male.  The "vital statistics", weight, height, hair color, and so on, were listed below each one.

" 'Seen near the vicinity of the October 3rd and November 2nd bombings'," Kurt read aloud.  "It took them long enough to get the sketches out.  I wonder what held them up?"

"Who knows?  At least we've got faces now."

"As long as they won't be hiding under costumes like ours."

"Kurt, you're scaring me.  Stop it."

                *              *              *              *              *

They were only staying in Anshelm's single-room efficiency in Berlin for two days and three nights.  With the funds that his friend put into this project, including Kurt's fees, Kurt had thought perhaps Anshelm or his parents had money.  However, one look at the Spartan, yet cluttered, apartment dispelled that notion.  His computer and electronic assembly table was top of the line, but everything else was at best second hand, sometimes rescued from the trash.  He slept on a single mattress without a bedframe, his radio and speakers were no doubt salvaged (though they sounded perfect), and the only other place to sit, besides the floor, was a beanbag that had been mended once.  Anshelm was a working student, getting by on rice and beans while he spent literally everything he had on his dream.  It made Kurt respect him all the more.

The first night Kurt spent familiarizing himself with Anshelm's incredible alien head.  The complex mandibular struts would mimic Kurt's own jaw movements, provided they were fairly broad.  If opened his jaw in just the right way, the second set of teeth snapped out.  Kurt scared himself the first time he practiced in the mirror.  

The next day they went to the conference site to work out choreography with the stage director.  It was vaguely organized chaos there, filled with the energy and tension of dress rehearsal that Kurt had grown so comfortable with over the years.  He wore an all black, all encompassing bodysuit (including tail) for the choreography dry run, with Anshelm's excuse that this was a "color test".  

As far as Kurt was concerned, the auditorium was an absolute delight.  Steel struts and scaffolding, designed for the heavy spotlights, lined the ceiling and even came down to the floor.  The choreographer had fits when Kurt went climbing.  There was no way she wanted to allow such dangerous stunts.  Anshelm eventually convinced her to let him has his way, but not without signing a waver.

And then, all too soon, Kurt found himself back in the sputtering Volvo, a load of latex suit and mechanical head in the trunk, winding their way to the conference for the big night.  He wore the black bodysuit again, with the addition of his trenchcoat.  Security, which had been tightened in response to the terrorists attacks, was unwilling to let Kurt by so covered from head-to-toe, even with Anshelm's guarantees.  Only when Kurt removed his trenchcoat and revealed his tail (which he kept stiff as possible) did they believe Anshelm's word.  Nobody but The Incredible Nightcrawler had a prop that good.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why is your face covered?" the guard asked as Kurt shrugged back into his coat.

"I can't let anyone see me without my makeup, can I?" he asked back.  "I'd loose that all important air of mystery if you saw under this mask."

The guard smiled and shook his head.  "Performers."

"Nice bluff," Anshelm muttered after they were out of earshot.

"Thanks," Kurt mumbled back.  "I've had a lot of opportunities to practice it."

They had a private room for changing, though it was a good thing Kurt was so inhumanly flexible.  It wasn't much larger than a broom closet.  The other, more showy costumes, including a couple with articulated wings, had to change outside.  Each piece of the alien costume slid over Kurt like a second skin, so tight that Anshelm dusted him down with talcum powder beforehand to reduce friction.  The tail assembly was so long that Kurt found it easier just to cling to the ceiling as Anshelm adjusted the fit.

"Final act on the roster," Anshelm was saying over and over.

"Yes, I think I've heard that somewhere before," Kurt noted dryly.  "Anshelm, take a deep breath before you pass out.  I'm the one who should be hyperventilating in this thing."

He dropped lightly down on all fours.  Anshelm grinned from ear to ear as he held the final piece, the alien's head, in his arms.

"God, you're perfect," he breathed.  "You move just like them.  You're going to scare the hell out of everyone there."

_At least this time, it's deliberate_, Kurt thought as he took the head.

"Now, you're sure you can get into the auditorium without being seen?" Anshelm asked.  "I know it's dark, but those doors can make noise."

Kurt grinned at him before donning the head.  "I'm not taking any chances.  The spotlight scaffold is solid enough for me to appear on."

He donned the head, and Anshelm brought out the petroleum jelly and a brush for a bit of extra, glistening slime.

"I keep forgetting you can do that," he said as he brushed the jelly on his creation's permanently bared teeth.  "I'm so glad I'm getting this all on tape.  This is going to be priceless."  He stepped back, brush in hand.  "O.K., last checks.  Teeth?"

Kurt moved his jaw around, and the outside mandibles responded, including the second set of teeth.  Anshelm crossed his fingers.  This next piece of equipment had been temperamental as of late.

"Voicebox?" he asked hesitantly.

Kurt hissed.  The equipment in the head amplified what would normally have been rather quiet into a fearsome sound that could be heard throughout the hall.  Anshelm took a step back, a hand to his chest in shock.

"Jesus, Kurt, whatever you do, don't talk!"

"Like this?" Kurt asked.  His voice was so horribly distorted that it even startled him.

"_Yes_, like that!"

Kurt just gave him a thumbs up.  From here on in, talking was strictly out.  Only hissing and growling was allowed while in character.  Anshelm took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Go get 'em," he said.

Kurt disappeared from the dressing room and reappeared on the heavy steel frame.  He immediately curled into the triangular network of struts.  The murmur of conversations and squeaking of chairs below rendered his normally soft entry sound inaudible.  No one even looked up.  No one knew he was here.  Perfect.  He settled in to wait for his cue.

After a few minutes, the lights went out completely and the crowd silenced.  For Kurt, it was like he was in a movie theater, curled up in a corner, watching above the crowd.  Of course, he didn't usually have a stifling costume to wear.  He stayed still and breathed slowly.  He had to conserve movement and energy, or else the rubber suit would heat up so much he'd be flirting with heatstroke.

There were other aliens, there were beings with wings, there were bugs and robotic suits.  Even though he had seen most of the costumes in one phase or another backstage, the presentations made everything all new.   The third to last entry was Robocop, the one Anshelm was so concerned about.  Everything, right down to the heavy sound of metal against the wooden stage, was perfect.  An appreciative murmur went up from the crowd as the figure's left leg opened up and gave him his gun.  Then he fired the weapon, the blanks so loud that they were indistinguishable from the real thing.  Even the action on the gun was perfect.  The crowd applauded wildly.  No wonder Anshelm was worried.  This was a tough act to follow.  Kurt looked down through the scaffold, once again marking his points.  His performance had to be flawless.

Hello?  He looked closer.  Someone, part of the staff, was standing on one of his marks.  What was going on, here?  The staff knew better than that.  They shouldn't even be in here at this time....

_Oh no, tell me that isn't who I think it may be...._

Everyone in the crowd was concentrating on the costume in front of them.  Even if they weren't distracted, they wouldn't be able to see the newcomer's face.  Kurt, however, had always found the deepest night the same as high noon.  The "staff member" _could_ be one of the faces of the bombing suspects on the front page.  

_I'm just jumpy.  There's probably dozens of people who look similar to that...._

The servant shifted nervously.  In fact, he looked _very_ nervous, and the blazer didn't fit quite right.  He was sweating and out of breath.  There was a long, suspicious-looking bulge in his pocket.  Kurt's pulse started to race.  Anshelm's "weirdness magnet" was at full power.

_All right, Kurt, so what are you going to do about it?_

The bombs hadn't been suicides, so the man wasn't likely to blow himself up.  His presence probably meant that if there was a bomb, it wasn't in the room.  Were they switching tactics?  Was he doing a hostage grab instead?  The man had a gun, and he looked desperate.

Kurt realized he had completely missed the second-to-last act.  Suddenly the announcer was giving his cue.  The "servant" was still on Kurt's mark.  Well, the good Lord had given him his opening, a way to take care of this without panicking the crowd.  He gave a mental prayer as James Horner's Aliens soundtrack came up.  Then he hissed and began to uncurl.

A gasp rose from the audience as they turned to the ceiling.  The spotlight came up on Kurt as he hissed again, unwrapping himself fully.  Startled shouts erupted as he leapt from strut to strut with terrifying speed and grace, whipping the tail behind him.  He crawled head-first down the scaffolding, then did a backflip and landed on the floor in a crouch.  He slowly stood up, hissing, tail lashing behind him.  He reared back and roared, activating the second set of teeth.  The crowd burst into applause and joyous shouts as he moved on all fours down the center aisle.  He looked over to his left, at the gunman perhaps twelve feet away, stood, and hissed again.  The gunman turned lead white and started to pull the gun from his pocket.  Kurt roared and sprung over the heads of the audience.  He landed squarely on the gunman, who screamed and shot wildly into the air as Kurt bore him to the ground.  Kurt pinned him, twisting the gun out of his grip, and leaned to within a scant inch of his face and neck, hissing all the while.  The crowd was ecstatic.

_*That'll* teach you to stand on my mark_, Kurt thought.

He grabbed the man with both arms, bounded onto the stage, and disappeared stage left to tumultuous applause.  The other contestants and stagehands stared at him in confusion.  Was this some sort of re-write?  He wasn't supposed to bring anyone backstage.  They got their answer when the newcomer recovered from his shock, broke out of Kurt's grip, and bolted for the rear exit.  Kurt swore and ran after him, bouncing off the wall in a quick left turn.  The gunman shoved by people in the halls and turned things over in Kurt's path, trying to slow his pursuer.  Kurt kept bouncing off the walls as he galloped on all fours, avoiding everything he threw at him.  If only the suit wasn't so tight, he would have caught up to the creep by now.  

Kurt could hear the employees cheering and exhorting the both of them as they went.  They must have thought this was an elaborate backstage romp.  His head was going light and he started to feel dizzy.  He was supposed to be stripping out of this vaguely mobile sauna by now.  The heat and exertion was eating him alive.  How long until he had a full-blown case of heat exhaustion?  

They ran through the complex until they were almost out of the building.  He knew the door at the end of the hall led to the outside.  He only had one chance to catch his quarry.

_God, please don't let anyone see me do this_, he thought.

He teleported behind the man and tackled him, ever mindful of the long, unwieldy, and now very hot and stuffy head he wore.  The man struggled, trying to get to the door, only a few feet away.  Kurt felt weak and faint with heat exhaustion.  He couldn't hold onto this madman much longer.

The door slammed open in front of them.  Men in black body armor swarmed in, their faces hidden behind masks; Berlin's elite anti-terrorist assault team.  They trained their machineguns on both men as they demanded their surrender.  First looking up at men that seemed twice his size, then looking down the even more intimidating barrels of their weapons, Kurt reared back and put his hands up in instant compliance.  The madman bucked him off and started to run when one of the team put several shots through his leg.  Kurt was sure one of the bullets, maybe two, shattered the terrorist's kneecap.  He fell screaming obscenities and was buried under six men.  Kurt sat against the wall, ears ringing and panting heavily, his breaths distorted and amplified.  As the gunman was put in restraints, one of the officers went to Kurt and knelt in front of him.

"That's an impressive costume, sir," he said.  "Are you hurt?"

"He dropped...his gun...in the auditorium," Kurt gasped.

His voice was suddenly normal.  The synthesizer had cut out.  Considering all the jarring, he wasn't surprised.

"Let me give you a hand up," the man offered.

"Aren't there...four of them?  Four bombers?"

The officer helped Kurt to his feet.  "Not anymore.  We caught the other three.  That's why he was running."

Kurt nodded, leaning against the wall.  At some point, the world _had_ to stop spinning, didn't it?  He closed his eyes and stood for a minute, the officer supporting him, and heard Anshelm's voice.

"Oh, Jesus, Kurt!  You're shaking!  Drink something!"

Anshelm shoved a straw under the helmet.  The cool water tasted vaguely of sweet and salt.  Electrolytes.

"I need to get out of this thing," Kurt muttered.

"Get him out of here before he drops," the officer ordered.  "We'll get your statements later."

Anshelm helped Kurt back to the changing rooms.  Staff lined up and cheered as they went by.  Kurt looked to Anshelm, who had that characteristic, wide grin again.

Kurt smiled back weakly.  "What is it?"

"You took down a terrorist in that costume, and it's still like new."

                *              *              *              *              *

"I had a nasty case of heat exhaustion for a few hours, but otherwise I was fine," Kurt finished his tale.  "I heard that the terrorist police were joking that _they_ should wear alien suits to make them more scary.   Anshelm and I joked after about what would have a worse sentence for the man; shooting at me or swearing at the police."

"Can they actually arrest you for swearing at them?" Ororo asked, curious.

"Oh, yes.  It is illegal to swear at police in Germany."  He waved a finger in the air to emphasis his point.  "Never, ever, _ever_ swear at police.  Be polite to them, and they will be polite to you."  He sighed and ran that hand through his hair, looking down and away with nervous shyness.  "It would be years before I told my family the truth.  Papa Bashalde would have shot me."

"I take it Anshelm made the cut?" Scott asked.

"Yes, but not first place.  That went to Robocop, for technical work.  He was very happy, though.  He had an apprenticeship at a local special effects company the next year.  We fell out of regular contact after that.  I don't know exactly when he moved to the United States."

"I'd love to see the videotape of that," Ororo commented.

Kurt sighed.  "Perhaps I can get it back from Germany sometime.  I did not bring it with me."

"Maybe Anshelm will have a copy.  Why don't you ask him?"  Ororo smiled.  "Otherwise, no one's going to believe you when you tell them this story.  I almost don't myself."            

Kurt smiled a little and pocketed the letter, envelope and all.  "I will try."

                *              *              *              *              *

Writing the letter was both enjoyable and horribly difficult.  While it was good to speak with his old friend after so long, how could he explain to Anshelm what happened to him in the White House?  Even Kurt didn't know.  Xavier suggested he use the carefully worded truth; that it was a masterful frame up, and that there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.  It wasn't perfect, but it would serve.

He sent off the letter and promptly forgot about it, occupied as he was.  It was a bit of a surprise when he received a small padded mailer a week later.  He stood in the empty hallway and opened it to find several pages of letter and a disc.  Anshelm had put it all on a DVD for him.

Rogue happened down the corridor at that time and noticed what he had in his hands.  Her face lit up and she ran to his side.

"Is that what I think it is?" she asked.  "Did your buddy burn a disc of that costume thing for you?"

" 'Burn'?" Kurt asked back, unfamiliar with the phrase.

"Did he make a copy of everythin' for you?" Rogue clarified.

"Wait a minute!  How did you find out?"

She smirked at him.  "I was next up in the Danger Room that day.  I just hung back and heard every word."  She suddenly grabbed the disc and took off, yelling, "Bobby!  Kurt got the alien thing on disc!"

Kurt grinned and shook his head as he followed, not really bothering to stop her.  

"It's all in German, you know," he called after her.  "You'll need a translator!"

He teleported onto the ceiling of the entertainment room and waited for Rogue to wind her way down.  She did with many of the students, and Ororo and Logan, in tow.  Kurt leapt down in front of the girl, prompting a startled shriek, and took the disk from her gloved hand.

"You act like I won't show you," he chided gently as he removed the disc from its case.  "Why would I be ashamed of one of my own performances?"

He popped the disk in the DVD player while the others scrounged any seat they could find.  As Kurt settled into a spot on the floor in front of the sofa, the flatscreen came to life.  It was all recorded by a hand-held unit, but Anshelm's hand was fairly steady.  The first scenes had Kurt dressed entirely in black, even his tail and his head, in what Kurt said was a color and motion test.  After that the viewers got to see Anshelm himself for the first time, helping Kurt into the alien costume.  Kurt looked younger, probably in his late teens, and didn't have any tattoos on his arms, which were clearly visible since he was only wearing a bikini swimsuit.  This prompted a few wolf whistles from the ladies.

But after all the preliminary work, which Kurt dutifully translated word for word, they got to see the performance in the darkened auditorium.  This was professionally filmed.  With the exception of Kurt and Logan, the entire room gasped in shock as it all unfolded.  Twice they jumped.  Kurt just grinned.  It was good to see his old performances still had appeal.  

"Kurt, you are _far_ too skilled at that," Ororo said.  "Promise me you have no intention of wearing that thing around here."

Finis 


End file.
